by Nancy Thayer
He was holding up a black-and-white abstract of a bunch of blobs. Did he think she was totally uneducated? That she didn’t know about Rorshachs?
“Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music.”
“And in this picture?”
“ ‘The Brady Bunch.’ ”
He displayed no impatience with her answers but continued through a set of ten, and when he was through, he swiveled in his chair to place the set on the table behind him. Then he turned back to face her.
“I’d say we’ve got a little issue avoidance going on.”
I’d say you look like Frankenstein’s brother.
“One more thing. We’ve got a little test we’d like you to take. I’m sure someone as smart as you will have no problem with it. It’s multiple choice. One answer only. We’d like, of course, for your answers to be honest. Take your time.”
Emily took the pencil and papers he handed her. She was sitting in a student’s desk with a writing table curling around her, and without a word she bent over the test.
I often feel I don’t belong in any group.
Always. ——
Never. ——
Sometimes. ——
My friends keep secrets from me.
Never. ——
Sometimes. ——
Always. ——
My body is ugly.
Yes. ——
Parts of it. ——
No, it’s just fine. ——
As fast as she could, without reading the rest of the questions, Emily sped through the test, checking off the first line of every question. She handed it back to him.
He took it without looking at it and leaned his forearms on his desk, earnestly peering at her from beneath his Cro-Magnon bulge.
“I’d say you are as angry as you are sad.”
She felt her face flame.
“Further, I’d say you’re as angry with yourself as you are with anyone else. And you think no one can help. And you think you are the only person in the history of the entire universe who has ever had the particular problem you’re having.”
She glared at him.
“Isn’t that a little arrogant? A little solipsistic?”
“I don’t know what that word means.”
“Self-centered. Unaware of the rest of the world.”
She shrugged. “Fine, just add being solipsistic to the rest of my sins.”
“You’ve got sins? A pretty young girl like you?”
“Sometimes people are just born bad.”
“I see. The Bad Seed sort of thing.”
Emily nodded.
Dr. Brinton leaned back in his chair for a moment and stared at the ceiling, humming tunelessly. Emily wished there was a clock in the room.
“Now what bothers me,” he said, suddenly turning to her, “is that in these reports I’ve read, interviews with your parents and the dean of your school, I’ve come across nothing that indicates any kind of sinning on your part.”
Emily didn’t reply.
“No suspensions from school. Nothing but glowing remarks from your teachers. So what’s up? I mean, come on, help me out here.”
“Maybe it’s something in the future.”
“I see. Something that hasn’t happened yet, but will. Something bad, planted inside you.”
Emily nodded. “Like a time bomb.”
He looked sad. Shaking his head, he said, “What an awful burden you are bearing, carrying a time bomb within you, thinking you are the only one who can avert disaster.”
Emily wrapped her arms around her stomach. “I don’t want to talk any more.” Pain was swelling through her stomach and chest. “Please.”
Dr. Brinton stared at her a while, considering. When he looked at his watch, Emily felt oddly offended.
“All right. It’s almost time for the fitness hour anyway. We’ll talk again tomorrow.” He rose. “I’ll escort you to the exercise room.”
He rose, a tall, ungainly, Ichabod Crane of a man, all bones and joints. It couldn’t have been easy for him as a boy. He could never have been handsome. He couldn’t help having that bulging forehead, those little eyes. She thought of Kafka’s story they’d read part of in school, where the man turned into a cockroach. Dr. Brinton was like a cockroach turned into a man. He was hideous, as she was, and still a human being. There was almost comfort in that thought.
Chapter Eight
“Hey, Mrs. McFarland!”
Owen had dropped Linda at Hedden, and as she entered Bates Hall, Bruce’s good friend Pebe lumbered down the stairs toward her, a bulging backpack over his shoulders.
“Looking for Bruce?”
“Looking for Jorge, actually.”
Pebe seemed surprised. “I think he’s in his room. Want me to tell him you’re here?”
“That would be great.”
“You can wait in the lounge if you’d like.”
“I’ll do that.”
The lounge was a beautiful room, with long casement windows, a fireplace ornamented with marble wreaths and vines, mahogany paneling, a parquet floor. Over the years it had been democratized by its furnishings: several sofas and armchairs sagging and misshapen from use, card tables set up among the claw-footed antiques.
Crossing to the window, Linda gazed out at the lawn sweeping out to the woods, crisscrossed by streaks of shadow.
“Mrs. McFarland?”
Jorge entered, wearing khakis and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his muscular forearms. His black hair was freed of its band today and hung down around his face in an ebony curtain that partially obscured his puffy, blackened right eye but could not hide his split, swollen lip.
Linda shook his proffered hand. “Thanks for coming down, Jorge. I won’t take up much of your time.”
“How is Emily?”
“She’s going to have to stay in the hospital a while. We don’t know what her problem is. Can you help us?” When he didn’t answer at once, she gently pressed, “Anything. We would be so grateful.”
Jorge leaned one hip on the windowsill. The sun fell over his face like a spotlight. His gaze was clear, direct. “I don’t know if this is significant.”
“Tell me.”
“Well. Last spring Emily and I became friendly. She’s really nice, Emily. Really smart.” His face softened. “We hung out together. We wrote a few times over the summer. Then this fall, we hung out together again. Saturday night, there was a dance here, and we danced. Then Sunday night we decided to meet in the woods for a cigarette—” Jorge glanced at Linda, judging how much this particular bit of information disturbed her.
“Go on.”
“Everyone does it. I mean, smokes, or if you’re part of a couple …” Jorge fiddled with his watchband, unfastening it and fastening it as if it were too tight. Looking at his wrist, he said, “I kissed her. She kissed me back. She wanted me to kiss her, I mean, she wouldn’t have gone to the woods with me if she didn’t. I mean, that’s why we go to the woods, everyone knows that.” Color was spotting his cheeks.
“I understand.” Linda kept her voice impassive.
“So we kissed, and I liked it, and she liked it, I know she did. I mean, a guy knows. So we were near trees, you know? And I just kind of—” Jorge coughed. “I kind of leaned against her so that her back was against the tree, and I put my arms around her. I didn’t touch her anywhere, you know? I just wanted to hold her. But suddenly she freaked. She just went apeshit. She shoved me away, she yelled, ‘What are you doing? What do you think you’re doing? What kind of girl do you think I am?’ I couldn’t calm her down. I tried to, but she just was, like, deranged. Like that!” He snapped his fingers. “She went from romantic to nuts. I tried to talk to her, but she was crying and saying stuff, I can’t even remember the stuff, she was saying it so fast, I think some of it might have been religious stuff. Being clean, wanting to be clean.” Jorge looked directly at Linda, his dark eyes concerned. “She ran off. She ran in the direction of her dorm. I star
ted to follow, then decided not to. I guess I thought I had overstepped some kind of boundary. But honest to God I don’t think I did anything wrong.”
Linda studied his face. “Is that all?”
“Absolutely.”
“You didn’t … have sex with her.”
“No. I swear.”
Linda had been standing, but now she sank into a brown leather sofa patched in places with silver electrical tape. “Have you heard anything about Emily? Anything else at all that might explain or even give us a clue about what’s going on with her? We’re so worried, and we just can’t figure her out.”
Jorge settled into a chair across from her, and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “I know she’s been more serious this year than last year. Intense. But that happens a lot. I mean, each year you learn more stuff you have to deal with in life. I think she was finding her classes more difficult. Or not as much fun. She was more quiet.”
“Do you think she was doing drugs?”
“No. Absolutely not. She’s not interested in that stuff. Besides, usually drugs make you skinny, and she was—” His face darkened with embarrassment.
“She’d gained quite a bit of weight over the past two months,” Linda agreed. After a moment’s thought, she decided: “So Sunday night is why Bruce tried to beat you up.”
Jorge nodded. “Right. I mean, people saw Emily running from me. And I know she was upset. Zodiac told me. But she didn’t say why. I mean, I only kissed her. I guess Bruce put two and two together and got eight.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Hey. A guy’s bound to be protective of his sister.”
They sat a few moments in a broody silence, then Linda rose. “I’m grateful to you for talking with me, Jorge. I really appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
“If you think of anything else, will you call me?”
“Sure.”
“My phone number—”
“It’s in the facebook.”
“Oh. Right.” Linda let herself scrutinize his face. “You seem older than the other students.”
Jorge smiled, abashed. “I am. Two years older. Because of my English. It’s okay now, but it held me back for a couple of years.”
“I think your English is superb.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you, for talking to me.”
“I hope, you know, that everything turns out okay.”
“Yes. So do we.”
The grounds of the campus were quiet as Linda cut through the quad toward Shipley Hall. The dorm was empty, yet the air seemed to shimmer, so full of the laughter and calls and emotions of young women that particles of hope and haste seemed to hang suspended, like dust motes, in the large bright rooms.
Someone had gone to the trouble of making Emily’s bed. The green duvet was perfectly aligned and smoothed, the pillows plumped, and next to them lay a pile of envelopes.
Picking one up, Linda saw that it was addressed to Emily, and sealed. Running a fingernail beneath the flap, carefully she opened it. A long white sheet of paper was folded inside. It was covered in different colors of ink and in a variety of handwriting with get-well greetings and expressions of support.
“Hang in there, Emily!”
“Merde! Emily, depeche-toi! I can’t do my French without you!”
“Wishing you much health and a speedy return, Gila Silvia, your dorm custodian.”
Linda examined the other envelopes. All were addressed in different hands, all to Emily, decorated with flowers or hearts or kisses or funny faces. Nothing threatening. Nothing helpful. She refolded the large card, returned it to the envelope, and carefully sealed it so that it looked as if it hadn’t been opened. Then she turned her attention to the rest of Emily’s space.
Everything was so wretchedly tidy. The white leather Bible seemed to glow on the bureau. Linda picked it up, and at once it fell open to Psalms 51. Emily had underlined certain lines so fiercely that the paper was nearly sliced through.
Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving-kindness; according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.
Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.
Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts; and in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom.
Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.
Fear surged in Linda’s chest. This was just not like Emily. Should she take this to the hospital, confront Emily with it? This had to be linked to whatever Emily’s problems were. Surely someone at the Methodist church could shed some light on Emily’s condition.
There were three churches in Basingstoke. The Catholic was built of red brick and featured a statue of the Virgin Mary set into the front wall. The Episcopal towered in a mountain of gray stone topped with a bell that tolled the hours. The Methodist was the most modest, a white clapboard structure with modern stained-glass windows. Demure signs, white script on blue wood, directed Owen to the rector’s office in the white house next door to the church.
Owen knocked, then stepped in through the unlocked door. He found himself in a hall furnished much like the hall of any house, with a coat-rack and carpet and mirror and a long polished table covered with pamphlets, brochures, pledge cards. Three doors opened off the hallway. He chose the one designated REVEREND CARTER, and knocked.
“Come in.”
An attractive older woman in a blue dress and cardigan was seated behind a desk against which leaned a handsome gray-haired man with a salt-and-pepper mustache. They were perusing a sheet of computer print-outs.
“Sorry to interrupt you,” Owen said.
“Not at all. Come in, come in!” the gentleman urged.
“I was wondering if I could talk to you, Reverend Carter,” Owen said to him. “About my daughter.”
The man smiled, graciously displaying his perfect false teeth. “This,” he indicated with a sweep of his hand, “is Reverend Carter.”
“Sorry again,” Owen said.
“Don’t worry,” the woman reassured him with a smile. “It’s a common mistake, believe me. Especially since my husband looks so much more ecclesiastical than I. How can I help you?” Her eyes were a brilliant periwinkle that matched her sweater, but Owen thought he caught a bit of ice sparkling there.
“I’m Owen McFarland. My stepdaughter, Emily Scaive, is a student at Hedden Academy, and she’s been attending your church services this fall.”
Reverend Carter interrupted him. “Won’t you sit down?” She gestured toward a chair.
Owen sat. “This past week she has gone through a rough patch. I mean, she has made a suicide attempt, and now she is in Basingstoke Hospital, in the psychiatric ward, and I’m trying to find out what exactly her problem is. She can’t seem to tell us.”
“Would you like me to visit her?”
“Oh, well, I’m not certain—I was wondering—do you know her? Have you talked with her? Is it possible that she has come to you with her problems?”
Gravely Reverend Carter shook her head. “I wish I could help. But I’m sorry to say that no young woman has approached me. I only wish one would. We’ve been trying to sustain our Young Methodist Fellowship programs on Sunday evening, but so few young people have time for Church these days. It’s possible your daughter has attended Sunday morning church services; we do get a group of young people from Hedden. But they all seem a little wary of personal contact.” She smiled slightly. “Probably afraid I’ll try to inveigle them into some dreary church duty.”
“What they see as dreary,” her husband corrected.
Owen rose. “Well, thank you for your time.”
“If you’d like me to visit her—” Reverend Carter offered again, eagerly.
“I’ll ask her. If she does, I’ll call you.”
He shook hands with the woman
and her husband, then made his way back out into the sun.
On the way to the farm, Linda and Owen compared notes on their morning interviews, and then Linda read the hospital brochure aloud to Owen as he drove.
“West Four is a short-term psychiatric unit for patients ages fifteen and older. It is a voluntary unit. You will be assigned a key person or primary clinician who will talk with you on a regular basis about the problems and issues that brought you to the hospital. Your family will be part of the process and will take part during Family Group every Wednesday night. You will be taking part in a number of groups, which will be assigned to you, and you are responsible for checking in with your key person during each shift.
“Some of the groups available are Fitness, Small Group, Adolescent Topic Group, Activity/Task Group, Crafts Group, Relaxation/Assertiveness, Family Issues, Art Therapy, Dessert Preparation, Chemical Dependence Education …”
“Dessert preparation?”
Linda read, “ ‘Voluntary cooperative group activity focused on preparing dessert for the Wednesday evening Family Group.’ There’s a schedule on the back of the letter to the parents. Apparently Emily’s every moment will be accounted for.”
“That’s good.”
“There’s also study time and quiet time. And a series of privileges: ‘Restricted to Unit, Unaccompanied Hospital and Grounds, Accompanied Passes Off Grounds, Day Passes, Overnight Passes.’ Following this it says in bold face that they may be asked to submit to random blood or urine tests at any time. There’s a dress code, and provocative or inappropriate clothing is unacceptable. Owen, this is sort of comforting.”
“I hope it is for Emily.”
They fell silent, brooding, while the miles clicked by. The sky was clouding over, turning the horizon dark, even though it was early afternoon.
As they pulled into the long gravel drive, the farm looked so beautiful that Linda was stabbed with pleasure, and immediately with remorse. She and Owen had been lucky; they were wealthy. They had this enormous old house, and acres of gorgeous land Owen inherited from his parents. They had books and friends and music, and they had healthy, happy children. They had each other, best friends, best lovers.
